We signed in at Tac School together and as a consequence sat next to each other throughout the course. Once or twice a month we drove to Eglin on the weekend to do some flying. I could usually get a T-33 or a T-28, and Joe could get us scheduled for missions in the B-29. Although we didn't get as much flying as usual, we kept up our skills.
We worked hard at the school and did well; I finished number 5 out of 750 students, but I had a bit of trouble with the public-speaking seminars, primarily because of my abject fear. My experience had been limited to briefing pilots for missions, which is hardly public speaking. On the first day of the dreaded course, each student walked to the front of the room and was handed a slip of paper with a word written on it. The student had to make a five-minute speech on the subject. My slip said "euthanasia," which I now know means mercy killing, but I was a bit vague as to its meaning then. I only knew that if the instructor had shot me dead at that moment, it would have been an act of euthanasia. Since I had to say something, I started to tell about the youth in Asia that I had observed in India and China during the war. The instructor, however, was not amused and told me to stick to the subject. I mumbled for a while and then asked the class to observe a few moments of silence for our war dead. At this point I was told to sit down. The only positive comment I received was that I had a nice smile. It came from one of my fellow students who had mistaken my rictus for a smile. As the course progressed I did a little better. Joe, on the other hand, did quite well with his down-home Indiana humor, which the instructor obviously preferred to my Brooklyn-Tampa humor.
In late June 1950, North Korea attacked South Korea. President Truman and the United Nations made the decision to commit U.S. forces, and later other allied forces, to defend South Korea from the Communists. Several of the students who were in units that were to be moved to Korea left the school immediately, and many more were alerted that they would be transferred at the end of the course in August. Several pilots and airmen from the fighter squadron were either transferred to combat units or alerted for transfer.
Tac School ended in mid-August, and we happily returned to Eglin and full-time flying. All firepower demonstrations had been canceled for the duration of the war, and almost all of our testing was aimed at the development of weapons and tactics for use in Korea. New underwing-pylon bomb racks had been developed for the F-80C, the only jet fighter available in Korea early in the war. Heretofore, the F-80 could not carry wingtip fuel tanks and bombs at the same time, because the same racks were used for both, severely limiting its range while carrying bombs or napalm.
Also under test were parafrag dispensers designed to be carried on the wing racks of jet fighters. Parafrags are deadly antipersonnel fragmentation bombs weighing about sixty pounds each; they are attached to small parachutes that open when the bombs are released, causing them to drop straight down on targets. Long strikers on the front explode them about a foot above the surface, hurling jagged shrapnel at tremendous speed in all directions, vivid proof of the statement that it is better to give than to receive. I had used them a lot in China, and they were very accurate when released at low altitudes.
Both the light bomb squadron and the fighter squadron were developing tactics and techniques for night tactical air attacks in the mountainous terrain of Korea. Later Douglas B-26 Invaders (previously called the A-26) were successfully employed in this role.
My days at Eglin were about to come to an end. I was to be transferred to the Pentagon in mid-September. I was not looking forward to a Pentagon assignment, but at least I would be among friends. I would be joining Barney Turner and Frank Smith in the Air Defense Division of Fighter Requirements, which was headed by Col. Ed Rector, my former group commander in China who had been responsible for my assignment to Eglin. Our mission would be challenging, to study and recommend new aircraft and weapons for the air defense of the United States, but it was still the Pentagon, and who wants to read, or write for that matter, about the Pentagon?
Epilogue
Aviation has been the keystone of my life. It is responsible for almost everything that I have achieved, and all in all, it has been a great flight. As a young boy I read all I could about flying and was particularly fortunate in finding a generous pilot who occasionally would give me a ride. My dreams of becoming a pilot were fulfilled, and spending almost six years as a test pilot was the icing on the cake. While in the Air Force I earned bachelor's and master's degrees in aeronautical engineering and spent five years as a professor at the U.S. Air Force Academy.
Following my retirement from the Air Force I worked as an engineer on the Apollo and Skylab programs and, in 1972, joined the staff of the National Air and Space Museum as head of the Aeronautics Department.
Life has never been boring, and I have enjoyed a strong sense of accomplishment in every aspect of my career. I helped to test the first Air Force jets, taught the first classes at the Air Force Academy, was involved in NASA's Manned Spaceflight Program, and played an important role in the creation of the world's most visited museum.
My personal life has been equally satisfying. I have a wonderful wife, Glyn, and two children, a boy and a girl. Both my children have become successful and productive adults, and I now have a lovely granddaughter, Laura. Although neither our son nor daughter has any interest in flying, I still have hopes for the grandchild. Once when Laura was about three, she was in bed in our house when she yelled for me to hurry upstairs because there was a spider in the room. After some searching I finally located the tiny spider in the far corner of the room at the wall-ceiling juncture. I told her she had good eyes to be able to see such a small spider, and she replied, ''Yes, I know. I can see air." What a good, and extremely rare, attribute for a pilot. Later when she was eight or nine, she wanted to know if I could fly upside down. When I assured her that I could, she asked me to take her up and fly upside down. I have taken her up several times, not yet in an airplane approved for inverted flight, but I will. The genes live on.
At times, things in life seem to go full circle. One of my first memories, and a lifelong inspiration, was seeing Lindbergh in a triumphal parade following his historic transatlantic flight in 1927. On the day of my retirement from the Air and Space Museum I was honored to escort Anne Morrow Lindbergh on a brief tour of the museum. Accompanied by her daughter Reeve, she arrived early, and I went with them to the second floor. There she paused at the Spirit of St. Louis and the exhibit of Lindbergh memorabilia. She then went to a bench opposite the Lockheed Sirius Tingmissartoq, in which she and her husband had spent so many hours exploring new air routes to Asia and Europe.
I stood a few feet away and watched as she sat, serene and lovely, with tear-filled eyes, quietly reliving some of their adventures together. I, of course, did not interrupt her reverie, but I hope that she realizes how universally she is loved and admired for her courage, devotion, and wonderful writing. It was truly a privilege to be with her. To me, she is unquestionably the woman of the century.
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